The Spirit and the Flesh
by Wolfish Inclinations
Summary: What starts as a simple story on a discovery at an archaeological dig becomes something much more sinister. Now, our hero and friends, old and new, must topple a power that spans continents and generations.  Chapter 4 up.
1. Prologue: In medias res

**Disclaimer**: Tintin and Co. belong to Moulinsart and no profit is being made from this work.

_For the flesh lusteth against the spirit: and the spirit against the flesh; for these are contrary one to another: so that you do not the things that you would. –Galatians 5:17, Douay-Rheims Bible_

**Prologue:** _In Medias Res_

If this is what Costya had meant by his best table, Tintin thought sardonically, he would hate to see his worst. The only virtue it had was it was hidden from the view of the rest of the nightclub. And in his position, the young journalist really couldn't bring himself to see the privacy in such a positive manner.

A lone light shone above them, fighting valiantly in the murky gloom that seemed to permeate every corner of this hateful establishment.

Costya placed the pistol on the table in front of him, "You have not touched your drink."

Tintin eyed the weapon, before meeting the huge man's stare. "I can't say that I'm really thirsty. You understand."

Smoke swirled up from the cigarette on the ash tray, spiraling wildly into the light cast by the dirty chandelier. A barking laugh came from Costya's throat, utterly without any true humor to it. Sick enjoyment, yes, honest amusement, no.

"No, no I imagine you wouldn't be." Two thick fingers retrieved the cigarette. He leaned back away from his captive, took a leisurely drag, the tip glowing eerily in the semi-darkness. He waved the serving girl over to the table, and she quickly bent to retrieve the wine glass.

As she did so, Tintin caught a whiff of something familiar lingering under the sharp sting of cheap perfume. Oil and gunpowder. He didn't know where exactly she was hiding it in that skimpy costume of hers, but the woman was armed. The small glimmer that had been his hope of escape all but extinguished itself. Even the wait staff was packing!

"Now, I believe you have something of mine, Monsieur, and I would have it back," The man's accent became heavier, even as his tone stayed perfectly nonchalant.

"And if I refuse to give it?"

"Then we will take it." White teeth glimmered as the Russian grinned, "One way or another."

Tintin's gaze fell once again on the weapon posed menacingly in his line of vision.

"I think," He said slowly, "That things will end the same for me if I give it to you willingly or not. So, let's just get this over with."

"As you wish."

Pain lanced through the back of his skull, the impact of the blow causing his teeth to come together with a resounding clack. Stars exploded behind his eyes and left darkness in their wake.

**A/N:** Alright, a short prologue to kick things off, before this thing sprawls out of control. It will be my first take on a semi-linear narrative, let's see how it goes. Takes place after _Tintin and the Alpha-Art_ and like all later Tintin works, is set in some sort of non-specified post-War timeline. This story has been brewing for quite some time(Think: nearly a decade), but it wasn't until I saw the movie that I got my butt in gear to actually write the damn thing. Might be a little grittier than some like their Tintin, yet I'm writing for a different audience than Hergé was. I also apologize for any shifts between French and English terms for characters/places/etc., since my collection is bilingual and I am an easily confused creature. –Cries-


	2. Chapter 1: In ruins

**Disclaimer**: See chapter one.

**Chapter 1**: In ruins

For a seafaring man, Captain Archibald Haddock had traversed more than his fair share of deserts. Still, this was the strangest one he had seen by far.

For one, though the sun was shining down with glaring intensity, he didn't feel the least bit hot. Secondly, though he could see the wind blowing little tornados of sand, it produced no sound. Then there was the fact that Tintin wasn't with him. If he was marooned in some god-forsaken oversized sand bar, his best friend was usually with him and was thinking of some way for them to extricate themselves from said situation.

Funny how that seemed to be the strangest thing in this scenario.

But no, he was alone. It was just him and the telephone for company. He blinked. Telephone? Had that been there a moment ago? Sure enough, not a meter away from him, perched on a marble topped side table that he recognized from the sitting room of Marlinspike, sat a telephone. It rang furiously, breaking the silence jarringly.

The Captain found himself unreasonably annoyed with the noisy thing. The silence had been preferable to that awful cacophony! He strode quickly over to the table, wrenching the phone from its cradle.

"Hello?" Haddock opened his eyes to find himself in his bed, mid-way to saying a second 'hello' out loud. Disoriented, it took him a moment to realize that he had not been stranded in the Sahara somewhere, but was safely cocooned in his bedroom, in his ancestral home. It had been a dream.

Well, a part had been. The phone and its infernal ringing were indeed a reality.

A quick glance at the clock revealed it to be midnight and confirmed whoever had the nerve to call at this hour was going to receive the dressing down of a lifetime.

He grabbed it, warming up with a, "You miserable ectoplasm…" but was cut off by a stream of rapid French. Now, his skills in that language were nothing to sneer at, but the gentleman on the other end was proceeding to jabber at such a rapid pace that all the captain could decipher was "Vingtième," "Marseille," and most importantly, "Monsieur Tintin."

"TIIIIINTIIIIIIIN!" He experienced immense satisfaction from his bellow. For one, he heard the cursing from the ear-piece as he pierced the inconsiderate fellow's ear-drum. Then there was the 'whump' from down the hall, which he assumed was Tintin tumbling out of bed. Seconds later, the sound of slippered feet pattering down the hall confirmed his suspicions. He couldn't help a satisfied grin.

Misery loves company.

The last of the Haddock line knew that he would not get back to sleep until he found out what all the hullabaloo was about. So he sat in the armchair and watched the bleary-eyed young reporter furiously taking notes, apparently barely keeping up with the excited caller. The red head could only seem to slip in a question or two before he went back to franticly jotting down information.

Finally, with necessary parting courtesies said, Tintin put down the phone and let out a long sigh. He began to read what he had written again, without saying a word and making Haddock practically squirm with anticipation.

"Well?"

The young man grinned, a little impishly, as if he had been deliberately stringing the Captain along.

"There's been a discovery at a Roman dig site tonight, between Aix-en-Provence and Marseille," He explained, "They've found three well-preserved skeletons, so they believe they might have stumbled onto burial grounds. "

"And this is justifies for a midnight chat?"

"It is if you're _Le Petit Vingtième_ and those of the excavation asked for me personally. Apparently, the archaeologists have halted the dig for the moment, in order to fully examine the remains they have. _Le Petit_ wants me to be there to catch each part of the story as it unfolds."

_Le Petit Vingtième_ had been the first magazine that Tintin had ever worked for, starting there at only fourteen years old. While he had worked independently for years now, he felt a certain loyalty to the company and often covered stories at their request. They, after all, hadn't laughed at the teenager armed with nothing but a writing sample and a terrier puppy like so many others, but had taken him in and showed him the ropes of the journalistic world.

"So, you're going?" Haddock lit his pipe and eyed his companion.

"Yes, sounds like an interesting story and I've been feeling a bit cooped up recently."

The sailor sputtered around the mouthpiece, "Cooped up? We've only just got home from that bloody mess in Tapiocapolis, or whatever those fool Picaros are calling it now, and now you want to go gallivanting off again?"

Tintin shrugged, with a sheepish smile, "Can't help myself, Captain."

Taking a puff from his pipe, Haddock let out a long suffering sigh.

"Well, I should probably come along."

"You don't hav-"

"Someone needs to keep your foolish young backside out of trouble."

"It's really not-"

"Anyway, Cuthbert is working on some thrice damned experiment and I don't want to be his guinea pig, again." He shuddered, he still couldn't enjoy whiskey, even months after Calculus had first doused him with that diabolical substance of his. Suddenly, the desert in his dream took on an entirely new meaning. Freud would have a field day.

Tintin had ceased to object, as Haddock whirled away to his dresser to begin packing for the South of France. Had the older man glanced back, he would have seen the younger valiantly fighting off a knowing smirk.

For all his objections to the contrary, at times the Captain was almost as hopeless an adventurer as he was.

_**(Provence, France. 8:30 a.m.**_)

Even in the early morning light, the summer heat in the South of France could be absolutely stifling. As they road along the rough terrain in the rented car _Le Petit_ had provided for them, Tintin reflected that he should have had Snowy's fur trimmed earlier. The poor little dog had spread himself out on the back seat, as flat as he could, long pink longue lolling with the motion of the car.

He and the Captain had caught the first plane from Brussels to the Marseille airfield, arriving shortly after dawn. The next hour and a half had been dedicated to navigating the beaten-up Peugot through the dirt roads and rocky terrain towards the dig site located near the small town of Orange.

Now, after an uncomfortably hot, bumpy ride, they saw the excavation site in the distance, made clearly visible on the horizon by its cluster of white tents. Haddock let out a sigh of relief as Tintin began to slow the car, while the terrier began to sniff the air curiously.

On the approach, though, it became very clear that something was amiss.

Instead of being busy at work, the inhabitants of the camp seemed to be concentrated in one large group at the northern end of the small camp. The unmistakable sounds of an argument became apparent, as the engine turned off. Exiting the car, Snowy tucked under one arm, Tintin focused on the knot of people.

"What on earth…?"

"Monsieur Tintin?"

The journalist turned his attention to the lanky, middle aged man approaching him with a rather embarrassed expression.

He put out a well-callused hand, "Doctor Devaux, senior researcher for this site. I was told to expect you."

Tintin took the offered hand and shook it heartily, "A pleasure. You'll excuse me for sounding impertinent, but I rather expected more, ah, activity here. Especially after such an important find."

"Well," The man hesitated, a look of indecision passing over his tanned face, "The heads of this project have come to a slight…disagreement."

"Slight?" Haddock interjected, sounding amused, "It sounds like two seagulls fighting over a starfish."

The volume of the altercation had indeed seemed to rise since they had arrived. Doctor Devaux sighed, removing his cap and wiping sweat from his forehead.

"What seems to be the issue?" The young man had fully entered into journalist mode, his notebook out and ready to take notes. The senior researcher eyed the book warily, as if it were a dangerous snake that would attack with very little provocation.

"There is an issue of the dating of the bones."

Tintin nodded, a very common issue with such discoveries he knew, especially since the Roman occupation of the part of the world had spanned centuries.

"One believes that the skeletons are a part of servants' or slaves' burial grounds."

Here, he hesitated again, eyes flicking between Tintin's face and the notebook.

"The other thinks we have discovered a murderer."

**A/N**: _Le Petit Vingtième_ is the name of the magazine for which Tintin is writing in _Tintin au pays des Soviets._ He mentions other publications that he works for throughout the series, so I figured he had gone independent shortly after the events of _Soviets _(Where he earns a major reputation for himself). I will be delving more into Tintin's past at one point or another later on, something I know Hergé left purposely mysterious. I, however, love me some backstory. So I lied about the 'Updated weekly' thing, but in a good way, I hope. I felt the prologue was a little too short to just leave you all with just that for a week.

Review Replies:

**Fool on a Far Away Hill:** I'm glad you found it exciting! This is really my first time writing adventure and I am always nervous about the pacing.

**The Jellyfish Returns: **Well, ten years in a very general way. I've been a Tintin fans since I was very little, but I didn't finish the entire series until I was about eleven. Then, after a few years of re-reading, I found myself wanting more, so I started to make up stories in my head about Tintin. That's when my first original character, who will be making an appearance later on in this story, was born. The plot for this story, sprang up a few years ago but refused to develop until recently. Thank you for the compliment on my style! If you can see any room for improvement in it, just let me know!

**GoldenFlither**: Thank you! I'll try to keep updating at a good clip and not to get lazy about it.

**Anonymous:** I, too, have this THING for Tintin in peril. It's probably not all that healthy, but HNNNG.

Please review, as it helps to keep the ol' morale up. Constructive criticism is greatly appreciated.


	3. Chapter 2: In contention

**Disclaimer:** See chapter 1.

**Chapter 2:** _In contention_

Later on in their acquaintance, Tintin would learn that Doctor Martin and Doctor Fuchs had been elected to work on the project together due to their outstanding credentials and the complimentary natures of their areas of study.

At first glance, he thought the partnership had been established by someone with an elaborate love of sight gags. Martin was as wide as he was tall, with wisps of dark hair surrounding a doughy and rather plain face. Krause, on the other hand, stood easily two heads taller than his companion. He had also been blessed by curly golden hair and chiseled features.

However, the latter was not at his best the moment Haddock and Tintin first saw him, on their approach. The German archaeologist towered over Martin, bellowing in heavily accented French, his face marred by mottled red splotches on his forehead and cheeks. Martin, clearly agitated but silent, simply allowed the man to continue his rant.

"… suggest halting all progress on the other two sites," Fuchs was yelling as the duo entered earshot.

"I do more than suggest it, Benedict! I will do everything in my power to make sure it is done,' Martin replied, voice elevated but even, "I have already contacted the gendarmes."

Fuchs seemed to be winding up for another go, when Haddock decided that he would show an amateur bellower how the professionals did it.

"What in the name of Davy Jones, is going on here?" Everyone within a four yard radius jumped as the Captain's voice jolted them from their concentration on the two lead scholars. Even Tintin startled slightly, much to his friend's amusement.

"Who," demanded Fuchs icily, "Are you?"

The reporter decided this would be a good time to intervene, before the man's ire transferred to the newcomers.

"I'm Tintin, the reporter, Doctor Fuchs. _Le Petit Vingtième_ sent me here, at your specific request. "

Martin raised a bushy eyebrow and turned a sardonic look at the furiously blushing Fuchs.

"Getting a bit ahead of yourself, weren't you? This is why you were worried? You requested one of the most famous reporters on the continent and then you couldn't deliver."

The other did an excellent impression of a flabbergasted fish, mouth opening and closing soundlessly for a few moments. Then, Fuchs seemed to collect his ego reasonably well. In a cloud of insulted dignity, he spun off and entered a nearby tent, giving the entrance flap the closest equivalent to a slam that he could.

The little Frenchman took a handkerchief from his sleeve and mopped his sodden brown, as he watched this over-dramatic exit. He turned to address the young redhead.

"I apologize, my boy. Fuchs is an excellent scientist, but his self-importance often interferes with his work. "He reached out and took Tintin's hand in one chubby paw.

"Doctor Xavier Martin," He said, adding, "I know who you are, son," When the reporter opened his mouth to respond.

Tintin grinned and introduced Captain Haddock, instead. The seaman posed his earlier question again, though decibels lower and more politely, to Doctor Martin.

Again, the handkerchief was produced to wipe away a new deluge of nervous sweat.

"Well, I'm afraid that you've lost your story on the Roman burial grounds." Hesitance briefly flitted over his features , before it was replaced by a steely determination.

"However, I think the scoop I have for you now will be a bit more…dynamic, shall we say."

Moving towards the nearest tent, he motioned for them to follow

T__

While large from the outside, the tent was almost cavernous on the inside. This effect seemed to be amplified by the dim lights concentrated in the center of the room, surrounding three slabs. Darkness lurked in around the tops of the support poles and in the corner.

The temperature inside was startlingly colder than the outside, once they had left the sunshine behind. The odor of freshly turned earth and the stale smell of old decay permeated the room. Tintin shivered, it was like being in a mausoleum.

With the flip of a switch by Martin, the lights flared to life, dispelling the sensation. And also revealing something much worse than a chill and a passing fancy.

On the center slabs lay three skeletons, each bone neatly arranged in an approximation of where they would occupy in a living person. The skulls sat at the top of each arrangement, forever fixed in macabre grins.

Having slid his hands into pristine white gloves, the archaeologist beckoned his visitors over. In their defense, their approach signaled nothing of the hesitance that they felt.

"Now," Began the scientist, with the practiced tone of someone used to lecturing students, "We saw nothing amiss when we unearthed the first girl."

"Girls?" The tone of Haddock's voice betrayed that he could not imagine these anatomy class specimens as anything but a pile of bones, let alone something as familiar as girls.

Martin hummed, 'Yes, clearly female and quite young from the looks of things. Now…" He took a horseshoe shaped bone from right beneath the skull of the middle skeleton.

"This is the hyoid bone. Do you see the fracture in it?" Peering closely, Tintin admitted that the fracture was difficult to miss.

"It takes a great deal of force to injure that bone and such a break usually indicates strangulation was the cause of death." Here, he paused for a moment. "Still, we did not feel much cause for alarm. Such violence has occurred throughout history, especially towards unprotected groups, such as slaves."

He replaced the hyoid and reached for the third skull, almost reverently. "Then we found this."

The back of the skull was turned towards Tintin and the Captain, so that they could see an almost perfect circle, with small cracks radiating off of its epicenter. The former swallowed, mouth dry, he had a very good guess at what had caused that, but waited for the archaeologist to confirm. Martin did not disappoint.

"I worked," The man said slowly, "On the recovery of bodies from mass graves following the war. I have no doubt what this was. This young woman was killed execution-style, by a bullet to the back of the head."

Silence descended, as both the Captain and Tintin stared at the small hole. Something almost innocuous looking, that had brutally cut short a life.

The young man finally found his voice, "And Doctor Fuchs was upset that you halted the dig over this?"

"Yes, he believed that the other two skeletons are legitimate finds, unrelated to the third. Yet, when we dug further, we found this underneath the second."

From a silver bowl, he produced two circular objects, one black and the other red, though both had a good layer of dirt still dulling their colors. After leaning into peer closely, Haddock rocked back on his heels to regard the chubby man.

"Is that," He questioned, unbelievingly, "A casino chip?"

"Not exactly a Roman artifact," Tintin murmured, still looking closely at the chips. Martin agreed, with no small amount of irony in his voice.

"I am the head of this project, so I called for a stop and had just called the authorities when Fuchs confronted me. Well, you saw the rest."

Tintin nodded absently, though his best friend could see the gears turning furiously underneath that ridiculously tufted coif of his.

"Very peculiar," He said quietly, hand moving to rub his chin. And just like that, Archibald Haddock knew that he had just become completely embroiled in this mess. The lad once he got hold of an idea could be worse than Snowy with a nice, juicy bone.

Finally, he raised his gaze up to their host.

"Doctor Martin, if I may. We're not the police or any authority, really. Why are you telling us all this?"

"Mysteries around you have a tendency to be suddenly solved, Monsieur Tintin. Or at least, you can get the word out about these have been found."

He stared at the skull is his hands. "From the looks of her spinal column, this…child couldn't have been older than seventeen or eighteen."

Looking up, he explained in a solemn voice, "Someone must be missing their little girl."

**A/N:** Well, since I uploaded chapter 1 early, I'm still technically on schedule for updates...pleasedon'tkillme. Last week kind of came up behind me and clobbered me with two major tests, an oral presentation and trying to organize a Thanksgiving dinner for the Americans in my town. I really am very sorry, and I'll try to get the next chapter out as fast as possible, since this week will hopefully be less stressful. Knock on wood.

**Review replies: **

Etoile-de-saphir: Je t'assure que ton anglais est beaucoup meilleur que mon français! Merci bien ! C'est rassurant de savoir que je ne suis pas la seule avec cette tendance ! XD

loskav: To say it's a relief to get this written down would be an understatement. Heaven knows there's only so much room in my peanut brain. I live for small details, which sometimes throws my writing off when I have to remind myself to quit Jane Austen-ing about and get on with the plot! Oh, you may want to stock up on Dramamine, because this is going to be one twisty road!

Bella: Thank you and I'm glad I could update early. The thing was practically writing itself!

Brazeau: You have no idea how good it feels to hear (read?) that I have their characters down. Bad characterization is my biggest pet peeve. I'll try to get the chapters out at a pretty steady clip!

MegElemental: I hope I'm delivering the quality! Tintin backstory, coming right up!

GoldenFlither: Thank you! Well, I definitely got my inconsiderate on in my update of this chapter. I am shamed.

JellyFish: I'm currently living in the Rhône-Alpes region of France and I went down there for the most recent vacation. Marseille and Aix were definitely a huge inspiration for this story! Well, you made it farther than I do with my research. Usually I'm like, "Aaaand, Facebook!" for three or four hours. Your aunt's school trip sounds way more exciting than any one I've ever been on, any trauma aside.

Ravenwood85: Thank you, I'll try to provide!


	4. Chapter 3: In investigation

**Disclaimer**: See Chapter One.

**Chapter 3:** _In investigation _

"May I?" Martin handed over the poker chips at Tintin's request. The young man turned the dulled pieces in his fingers, peering closely. The elements had worked their magic on them, effacing details, but yet… Yes, there! Small ridges ran the perimeter of the small circles and what appeared to be writing filled these borders.

"Paper! I need paper and a pencil or charcoal!"

"Now is not the time to start writing that article, boy." This comment only received an indifferent wave, as the archaeologist scrambled to provide.

The equipment was produced and the chips placed on a work bench. Hunkering down, Tintin placed the paper over the plastic and began rubbing furiously over them with the side of a pencil. He stopped abruptly as two large shadows blocked the dim light from above, impeding his work.

Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the Captain and Martin peering down at him, both faces lit up with anticipation.

"Er, do you gentlemen mind?" Embarrassed, the older men mumbled out apologies. They backed away, allowing the reporter to return to his work.

Tintin couldn't help the child-like thrill that ran through him when he saw letters beginning to emerge from the grey mass of graphite. He remembered his mother showing him how it was done, using the same method on one of his father's notepads to "solve the mystery" of what Papa had been writing. He had felt the same excitement then. The memory was quickly shoved aside. Now was not the time, nor the place.

The words "La sirène" stood out against the dark background, as the young man brought it up to the light for inspection.

Haddock started like a guilty thing when Tintin read it out loud. Quickly, he snatched the paper from the boy, peering at the faint writing.

"Well, I'll be a blistering poltroon," He murmured, scratching idly at his beard.

Tintin had begun the process again other side of the red chip, "Does it mean something to you?"

"It's a watering hole and casino in Marseilles. Quite the operation it was. Now, wipe that smirk off your face," He added when his young friend sent him a knowing look. The younger knew that the Captain had visited every pub, bar and tavern in most major ports from here to Hong Kong. He was not surprised to hear him well versed in Marseillais public houses.

"But that must have been fifteen years ago now," The sailor continued, "It was run by a Russian something –off."

"Rezkinoff. Vasilev Rezkinoff," Martin supplied. At his guest's surprised look, he smiled. "_La Sirène _was a household name back in its time. Rezkinoff's son took it over about five years ago."

He shook his head, "I'm afraid it attracts rather a lesser brand of clientele than it did back in my day."

"What's this?" Rising from his work, Tintin held up two other pieces of paper to the light. On one, crudely hewn was "4k" and on the other, "C. Martin", equally jagged.

The scientists looked flustered, as both Tintin and the Captain turned enquiring glances to him.

"Does this refer to you, Monsieur?"

Martin gaped at the question that the reporter had posed, "Certainly not! The idea that I…" He cleared his throat, "No, no. That is not me. I, for one, am X. Martin. And I have not set foot near that establishment since my bachelor days!"

Either he was a very good actor, Tintin thought, or the poor man was honestly aghast at the idea of being involved in these deaths.

Just as he was about to soothe the flustered man, Snowy began to bark irritably. Moments later, the sound of sirens became audible.

"I believe the gendarmes have just arrived."

**:Break:**

Indeed, three vehicles marked as belonging to the national police and one unmarked pulled up to the site within a few minutes. The impeccably uniformed gendarmes emerged, seemingly unperturbed by the rising heat, even clad as they were in wool.

The men who stumbled out from the unmarked car were an entirely different story.

Tintin blinked in surprise, "Thompson? Thomson?"

The Interpol agents had abandoned their jackets and customary bowlers, their white shirtsleeves up to their elbows. Their minimal hair was plastered to their heads by sweat.

"Tintin," The identical partners intoned. They gave Haddock a similar greeting.

"What are you two ectoplasms doing here?" The latter demanded gruffly. Wherever these two appeared, trouble followed.

"To investigate a frightful affair, I'm afraid."

"A fair fright," Agreed Thomson. Or was it Thompson? The Captain decided he was not going to concern himself with that headache.

"In the last two years, the bodies of five young women have been found here in this area. No one reported them missing, nor could anyone identify them. They were strangled or shot a single time."

Haddock felt a bit queasy at the similarities with what Martin had just explained to them, "And you believe these skeletons are related?"

The agents nodded. "We don't know if this is a new or an old modus operandi."

"And why is Interpol involved?" Tintin questioned. Surely, they had a murderer on their hands. But for the international police to become involved there must be something deeper.

Two identical pairs of eyes met, and for an eerie moment, it seemed as if the two men shared a single mind as well. They nodded in unison, seeming to have agreed on some unspoken conclusion.

"That's agency business."

"Very delicate."

That was a surprise. Many times, the men did not hesitate to involve their civilian companions in "agency business." Moments later, the stony façade that the duo had thrown up crumbled. A glance over shoulder and Tintin saw the two Martin and Fuchs being questioned by the gendarmes.

"We'll have to know anything you've found so far," Thompson was saying, drawing Tintin's attention away from the scene.

With a sigh, he launched into the tale, starting from the midnight call to Marlinspike to the present. Much to his surprise, the Thompsons faces darkened at the mention of _la Sirène _and yet another telepathic conversation was held.

"You know of the place?"

"Know it!" The exclamation burst forth.

"Two of the other investigations led to its doorstep!"

"And every time, 'No one here knows anything!'"

The policemen looked immediately contrite at their outbursts. So much for confidentiality. Tintin clamped his lips together to keep the grin at bay.

Much throat-clearing later, the unrelated twins had regained their composure. They demanded the chips from the two men and Tintin handed them over. It did not escape his friend's notice that the paper was still firmly entrenched in the reporter's pocket.

"Agent Thompson, Agent Thomson!" One of the gendarme had broken away from his comrades and approached the four men. A man of middle height and plain looks, the only distinguishing feature he possessed was a well-groomed mustache above his thin lips.

"I will have to ask that you leave all evidence with us. I insist." He glanced, almost nervously, back at his fellow policemen. Probably forcefully elected to go tell the scary Interpol agents what they could and could not do, thought Haddock.

In response, both agents drew themselves up to their full height.

"We have been given authority in this case."

"Moreover, this case has given us authority."

"The chips stay with us, my good man."

The officer looked ready to object, but he was promptly ignored as the duo turned back to their usual allies.

"We're sorry, but we're going to ask you both to stay in the area during this investigation, due to your connections with it."

"Of course," Tintin agreed solemnly. Haddock shot the boy a quick look. Obeying so docilely? Unlikely. He was practically vibrating with excitement.

"We will be staying in Marseille, near le Vieux-Port."

Haddock's bushy eyebrows made for his hairline. They had been planning on staying in Orange, but at Tintin's expectant face, he agreed.

"Right, Marseille. Le Vieux-Port."

**:Break:**

"I won't have anything to do with the hair-brained scheme of yours!"

Tintin popped his head out of the bathroom of their shared hotel room. His bright copper hair had been covered by a dark brown wig and he was dressed in a dirty outfit that a kind soul would have called shabby. An artful application of make-up made his round cheeks appear more hollow and his button nose wider.

"I didn't ask you to, Captain," Was the cheeky reply. Returning to the mirror, he continued, "Just call the Thompsons if you don't hear from me by midnight."

Haddock had a million responses waiting on the tip of his tongue, but he knew that all of them would be shooed away like pesky flies by his friend. Moreover, he didn't want to play the mother hen. He had already filled that beautifully during the two hour ride to Marseille, as Tintin had explained his plan.

"This is going to end badly," He told Snowy, who lay on the bed next to him, eyes fixed on the bathroom doorway. The little terrier mix whimpered, as if in accord with this sentiment. The disguised man had heard the comment, though.

"Nonsense. I'm going out for a night of gambling. What could possibly go wrong?"

Snowy whimpered again and his straight tail descended to half-mast. Haddock couldn't help but feel that the dog had expressed his exact feelings.

Famous last words.

**A/N:** I apologize for the delay! I went from being an unemployed student to a student with two jobs in the course of a week. So, between job interviews, first days and schoolwork, my time just got sucked away. I have, however, planned out the next five chapters in detail, so they should be coming through the pipeline pretty quickly. Also, I feel like my English is getting worse, despite it being my native language. I just had a five minute argument with spellcheck, only to realize I had been writing the word with the French spelling. Heh.

**Review response**

**loskav:** Thank you! I'm definitely looking for a beta, though those of the Tintin stripe seem to be rare. If you have any recommendations, I'd me more than happy to have them. By the way, I just finished _Tintin and Alpha-Art: An Imagining_, but I didn't have time to review it properly. Be prepared: A giant, fawning review is coming your way! (Your abilities with dialogue do strange things to my heart.)

**GoldenFlither: **It's a mystery all in of itself, isn't it? Thanks!

**Jellyfish:** Well, yes, after a time. At first though, it is difficult to tell the difference between a new and old gravesite. By the time they were seeing that this might be a new one, the mode of death had already been discovered.

**TrickyTiara:** Thank you! Writing the Captain is incredibly fun, so I'm glad you're enjoying it.

**Anonymous**: No, I don't think that's in the cards. That's not how I write Tintin, plain and simple.

Please review! Feedback keeps the gears of creativity well-oiled!


	5. Chapter 4: Incognito

**Disclaimer:** See Prologue.

**Chapter 4:** _Incognito_

Tintin woke with a start.

The sharp movement lanced painful pins and needles through his arms and hands, which had been resting comfortably numb behind his back.

"Crumbs!"

Slowly, he forced his uncooperative eyelids to open and, with further effort, his eyes to focus. He found himself in the center of what appeared to be a large storeroom of some sort. Well, disposal room would be a more accurate description. Broken chairs lay here and there in his line of vision; no doubt, the victims of fights between la Sirene's patrons. A large heavy table sat in pieces by the shut door, its one intact leg sitting atop the rubble.

Despite himself, Tintin was impressed by whatever fisticuffs had reduced that monstrous piece of furniture to such a state.

He blinked, clearing his vision and as focus returned, so did memories from earlier in the night.

**-The Adventures of Tintin-**

La Sirène was a monument to a lost era. The gilding on its art deco exterior had chipped and peeled. Some industrious soul had attempted to repaint, but workmanship was shoddy, at best. It was flanked on either side by newer, more fashionable establishments, sleek monsters of glass and steel. These casinos only emphasized the shabbiness of the once great hall.

The lack of aesthetic, however, did not appear to be a deterrent to its steady stream of customers. In fact, the clientele suited the establishment to a tee. Middle-aged sailors and dock workers dressed in various shades of disreputable stood outside the entrance, smoking furiously and laughing uproariously as only the inebriated can. Here and there, Tintin saw smooth faced youths trying to hide their age and social status behind grubby coat collars.

Several of these boys eyes the reporter as he approached the door, posturing. The older men paid him no heed.

"Don't go looking for trouble," He silently advised his peers, "It will find you soon enough."

It must be said that in his focus on the goal, the irony of that thought coming from him was lost on the young man. Furthermore, in a few hours, he would be wishing that he had taken his own advice.

He wasn't certain if the gloom of the interior of la Sirène had been a choice by the management to hide less than picturesque details of the building or was due to the thick cloud of cigarette smoke.

Serving girls with large trays, dressed in vibrant red dresses, moved among the poker and black-jack tables in the large central hall. They provided the only real color in the place, a striking contrast to the more somber colors of their customers.

One such sever stood at the door, ready to exchange currency for chips to any and all comers. Tintin quickly gave her a modest amount and received the chips he was due. To his surprise, none of the little plastic pieces were red or black.

He entered the large open area, eyes open for a table that would give him a strategic view of the room.

Suddenly, the hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention and a familiar sensation made itself known. Someone was watching him.

As he walked through the games, he scanned the room surreptitiously for whoever was watching him with such focused interest.

He almost overlooked her entirely.

Clad in a black version of the server's uniform, she had accomplished a sort within the shadow of the pillar against which she was leaning. Only pale skin and the glowing tip of a cigarette distinguished her from the surrounding obscurity. The woman had every appearance of nonchalance, save for her gaze, which never wavered, even as her eyes met his.

Forcing fear of recognition down, he reminded himself to stay in character. He returned the stare, causing his admirer to arch an eyebrow. Adopting what he hoped was a convincing leer, he winked. He could only hope that in the poor light, she couldn't see the pink tinting his cheeks. Tintin, world renowned journalist and adventurer, could claim many titles. "Ladies' Man" was not one of them.

Her eyes widened, before a smirk wound its way lazily over her face.

Tintin turned away, again picking his way towards a convenient game of Blackjack. After settling into his seat, he glanced to where the dark-haired employee had stood. She had disappeared.

The dealer acknowledged him with a nod and he turned his mind to more pressing matters.

As he played several rounds, his attention was drawn to a staircase directly in front of him, across the main hall. Grand and marble, it was guarded by two large men, who stared dispassionately out into the crowd of gamblers.

Tintin played for nearly an hour, but saw only four men pass through the two behemoths. Each time, the client was stopped before being waved through.

'So,' The journalist mused to himself, 'You need credentials to go upstairs. But why is the upstairs restricted?'

Having suffered minimal losses, he withdrew from the game, steering himself in the direction of the bar. Despite being crowded, no one at the heavy oak bar seemed to be in a particularly talkative mood. Most hunched over their drinks, celebrating with their winnings or attempting to forget that they had no winnings.

As he slid onto an abandoned stool, he noted that the man seated next to him did not have the same air.

While the rest of the denizens of the bar were a study in how to avoid conversation, this man seemed almost pathetically eager to make it. He swung side to side on the stool, attempting to make eye contact with his fellow patrons or the bartender. He was soundly ignored by all.

His hands moved constantly on the bar, softly clicking something together. When his lifted his hand, Tintin almost jumped off of his stool. There, against the faded oak, where two chips, one black and one red.

The man smiled in triumph as he noticed Tintin's stare. He leaned in close and the disguised man barely resisted recoiling from the smell of cheap pastis and poor dental hygiene.

"That's right," He crowed in a low voice, "I got the keys to heaven." He looked across the room and Tintin followed his gaze to the staircase.

"'Course Old Peter don't guard nothing like what's up there," He added with a crooked smile.

"But don't worry, Boy! Save enough and you can ascend, too!"

Suspicions were solidifying in the young man's mind. The black and red chips were access cards to the rooms upstairs, then. It must be something if the numbers had to be so restricted.

He eyed his unwitting informant as the filthy man took a swig of his drink. Now, to get access for "ascension."

**A/N:** Sooo, I have an excuse. It's kinda a poor one, but here you go. After getting back to the States, my application and re-application for a visa in France was promptly denied for no apparent reason. Then, following that was Christmas and the usual madness surrounding that. Follow with a "What the hell am I doing with my life?" moping and a frantic job search. Finally, I remember that I have this chapter all typed up. The day I go to post it, my computer dies. The chapter and my outline for the whole story are gone. Cue hissy fit. But! Now I have a life-plan, a brand spanking new laptop (courtesy of after Christmas sales) and I am well on my way to re-creating the outline. So, all's well that ends well. And my apologies for being so late in updating. Thank you all for the marvelous reviews!

GoldenFlither: Poor Tintin's day is about to get a lot worse. I really do love this story, despite my negligence of it, and I'm glad that comes through in my writing.

Baou21: Thanks! And for once, it wasn't Spellcheck's fault.

Etoile-de-saphir: Thank you!

Bgh: Sorry, but not quite. Actually, not even close… Thanks for reading!

Noremac: Thanks!

Nezumi-88: Oh, the places this story will go… Just you wait!

Hhhheeeyyy: Patience is a virtue, my dear.

Jaclefish: Glad you're enjoying it…but where did I ever give any indication there would be Tintin!rape in this story? If you're referring to the capture, that happens like every other page in the comics and our hero always escapes with his virtue intact.

Anon: You flatter me! (And I like it.) But seriously, thank you very much. It's always the trickiest characters that end up being the most fun to write in the end.

Flylikeabird22: Thank you! Glad to know that my English isn't degrading into Franglais!


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